Michealangelo's Unknown Rage
by IceColdHeart
Summary: Everyone THINKS that Mikey is always the happy go lucky one...they're about to get a wakeup call.


First off, forgive the undoubtedly numerous tangents this story will go into. I just recently watched the TMNT episode from 12/11/04: "Nobody's Fool", so I'm more than likely going to be pulling info from there. You have been warned. _**L**_ Then again, we'll just see, won't we?_**smirk**_ And just to cover my arse, the T.M.N.T. and all related stuff about them do NOT belong to me. Although I wish they did! _**smirk**_ All other names and characters are products of my own twisted imagination and any similarity to those living, dead, committed or otherwise known to us is purely coincidental. Oh yeah, and all works contained herein are copyright of Ice (me, duh!).

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Michelangelo and His Unknown Rage

by: Ice

Michelangelo was laying on his bed, his fingers interlaced behind his head and his pillow, blanket and various other items were strewn about his room. Granted, his room usually was a mess, but this looked like a tornado or ten had blown through. His drawing table, nicked and scarred though it was from the numerous times he had hit stumbling blocks during his drawings, had virtually been split in half.

When he had literally blown into his room, he'd had enough of Raph's constant teasing about his supposed level of stupidity, or that if **he'd** had a certain woman in **his **room then things would have gone differently, or about his apparent cowardice in certain situations and a hundred thousand other things that Mikey seemed to be at odds with his brother about. So, whether on purpose or purely by accident, he turned on the first object that he saw out of the red haze that had become his field of vision. True, Raph was an asshole in general, but this time, he had gone too far and said too much. Raph either didn't know, or more accurately, didn't care how low the blows fell or where they landed for that matter. All that mattered to Raph was that he came out looking like the 'king shit' to everyone around him at the expense of others. While Mikey wouldn't be the first to readily admit that he was, obviously, the least courageous of his brothers, he, and they knew, he was also the fastest, and that's something that even the almighty Raph would never be able to live down.

Small consolation though it was to Mikey, he knew at times that even Master Splinter, the one being he could truly always count on for advice and understanding, shared the same sentiments as his brothers when it came to the subject of his own "shortcomings" as it were. And while Mikey could roll with Raph's punches, both verbal and physical as well as the next person, he had just had enough with all of it. Raph was just being his usual jerk-wad self. Mikey didn't know if he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time or whatever the case was, but all he knew was that suddenly his attacks were directed solely at him. "Well we all know that Mikey would've just curled up inside his own damn shell at let the Foot walk all over him if **I** hadn't been there to save his ass. And he's basically a waste of space as it is! I mean look at 'im! He was the only one who wasn't taking on those creatures that the Foot had mutated into Quarry, Stonebiter and Razorfist...just sat there twirling his lame-ass chucks like a damned useless cheerleader with her batons and shit!" And the insults just kept rolling on from there.

Quick as a lightning strike and infinitely more deadly had there been a certain red-bandanna-clad head where his nunchukas had struck, his drawing table had a crack down the exact middle that looked more like a scar than an actual crack...at least that's what Mikey thought, but he didn't give a shit at this point. After the drawing table, he went absolutely ape-shit on his poor defenseless room. Tearing down drawings that had taken him months to complete...some of them were masterpieces that, once upon a time in his opinion, could maybe be hanging in an art gallery somewhere, were now in a million pieces all over his room. It looked like Mardi Gras had been condensed into the space of his room and all of the confetti that was undoubtedly part of that celebration had been dumped in the exact middle. But again, he didn't care about the mess. He was sick and tired of caring about people that obviously **didn't** and never **would** care about him.

After the destruction of his drawings, everything else was a blur. It's a miracle that his bed had survived his rampage. The next thing he knew was that he was listening to his Good Charlotte CD on repeat for their song 'Hold On', the player cranked at its fullest volume, his wraparound headphones secured tightly against the back of his head, eyes closed tightly to drown out everything but the music that had been playing for god only knew how long and his lips barely noticeable as he was gritting his teeth behind them, pressing the lips together so tightly that the green of his skin from his nose to his chin looked like one solid mass. He didn't even notice that his hands were ever so slightly oozing blood onto his pillow. What should have been a constantly throbbing pain had gone completely unnoticed...that is until he heard something like a battering ram slamming against his door. Even at this volume, even a noise like that could not be ignored or completely unheard.


End file.
